


Admitting Defeat

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [26]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:50:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “You uh, want to come in for a drink?” Roman asks, before he can second-guess himself.Connie bites his lip. “Um,” he says. “Yes? Please?”





	Admitting Defeat

Roman’s concerned.

He doesn’t know what it says about him right now that when Connie comes over to his stall after practice, the first feeling is uncomplicated joy, but the second one’s something closer to vindication. That his first instinct’s to smile at Connie, but his second is to look over, see if Harry’s watching. Probably doesn’t say anything good.

“Are you doing anything right now?” Connie asks.

“I have to go home and walk Zuza,” Roman says, “Hit snooze too many times and didn’t have a chance before practice.” He felt awful about it, leaving her tragic little face, but Coach is pretty intense about what happens if you’re late for practice, and while their forwards may be too injured right now for him to scratch Roman for next game, honestly he might have anyway. 

Connie seems to deflate a little. “I under—” he starts.

“You can come too, if you want,” Roman says. “She’d be happy to see you.”

Connie’s smile is like sunshine. Good back-up name, if Sweetheart hadn’t been so apt. “I’d be happy to see her,” he says.

Connie pulls in about five minutes after Roman gets home. He endured a good few minutes of excited, restless puppy before he clipped a leash on her and brought her outside. She’s been good about not peeing on the floors for months now, and he had time to let her out while cramming breakfast in his mouth, but no point tempting fate.

“Sorry,” Connie says. “I had to drop off Val. He’s nervous about leasing a car right now.”

Roman doesn’t blame him. Last thing he needs if he gets sent down to Iowa again is to have car payments to worry about. Zuza’s started tugging on her leash, trying to get to Connie, and Roman follows her while she does her little hop hop hop down the steep front steeps. Connie’s beaming at her like she’s the most adorable girl in the world, which she absolutely is, and Roman’s heart kind of hurts, watching him go down to a knee even though there’s a thin dusting of snow on the ground, greeting her as enthusiastically as she’s greeting him, with less licking but more head scratches.

Zuza trots happily through the snow once she’s done loving on Connie, and they follow at the slow pace dictated by her short little legs, Connie’s hand brushing against Roman’s every few steps. It’s nice. Peaceful, with that blanket of snow, the afternoon lull, and already familiar, Connie walking beside him as Zuza trundles ahead of them. The kind of thing he wants to happen more, wants to happen all the time if he can have it.

Roman turns back when Zuza’s finished her business and he’s starting to get cold. Connie hasn’t said anything about it himself, though his cheeks are bright pink. Hands too, because he’s not wearing gloves, and Roman wants to stick them in his pockets, warm him up. 

There’s a moment of hesitation when they reach Roman’s front door, Connie looking simultaneously like he’s expecting something and trying not to expect anything all at once.

“You uh, want to come in for a drink?” Roman asks, before he can second-guess himself.

Connie bites his lip. “Um,” he says. “Yes? Please?”

Roman kind of meant the ‘drink’ kind of drink, the kind he knows Connie was offering last time, and he figured Connie picked up on that, but he isn’t expecting that, basically the second Roman finishes wiping off Zuza’s paws and straightens up, Connie’s in his space, mouth on his. His hands are freezing, lips cold too, enough that the trace of his tongue over Roman’s bottom lip feels scalding, burns him up inside.

Roman means to pull back, maybe offer him an actual beverage like a good host, ask if he wants to order lunch, but Connie’s mouth is addictive, cheeks gone warm when Roman reaches up to cup them. Roman thinks they’re probably just as pink they were outside, could find out if he had the strength to pull back and look at him, but Connie, flushed and well-kissed — it’s probably better if Roman doesn’t see that, because he’s barely holding out as it is.

Barely, or not at all, because somehow without his conscious permission they’re moving in the direction of the living room, and more importantly the nearest flat surface. Connie’s the one that tugs him down, but Roman’s definitely not putting up a fight, and what felt like a lot standing is almost excruciating now, Connie’s chest moving fast under his, the skin of his neck soft under Roman’s lips when he pulls back to pay it some attention, Connie’s fingers curling around the back of Roman’s head. His hair’s too short for Connie to get a grip of it, but the thought’s scorching, Connie directing Roman where he wants him to go, making sure Roman gives him exactly what he needs.

Connie makes a noise into his mouth when Roman kisses him again, muffled, a hand sliding up the back of Roman’s shirt, and Roman has a feeling that if he doesn’t put the brakess on this right now he’s going to end up blowing Connie on the couch. _Not even technically the second date_ , he reminds himself, but then Connie shifts against him, hard against Roman’s hip, and fuck, Roman doesn’t _care_.

Connie starts laughing into the kiss, and Roman pulls back, something like humiliation running through him until he sees that Zuza’s grabbed ahold of Connie’s sleeve, worrying it between her teeth.

“Zuza, no,” Roman says.

“Is that your firm voice?” Connie asks, looking up at him, pink and smiling and so, so fucking pretty. 

“Not firm enough?” Roman asks.

“You’re a softie,” Connie says, smile widening.

“Am not,” Roman says, nudging his nose against the corner of his eye, the smile lines there.

“A complete softie,” Connie argues, and Roman counters with a kiss, one that lingers until Connie starts laughing again.

“Zuza,” Roman says again. She appears to be trying to tug Connie right off the couch, and Roman doubts she’ll be successful at dragging someone 200 plus pounds down, especially since Roman’s on top of him, but it’s definitely distracting.

“We can go to your room?” Connie asks.

“I —” Roman says. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe you should head out?”

“Right,” Connie says, and Roman doesn’t think he’s imagining his face going a little stony. “Okay.”

“Connie,” Roman says, shifting off him. “I just think—”

“You really don’t have to explain,” Connie says, sitting up and giving Roman another smile, this one a pale imitation of the grin before. 

“It’s not that I don’t—” Roman starts.

“I get it,” Connie says. “Seriously.”

Connie kisses him in the front hall before he goes, but it doesn’t linger.

“I don’t know whether to be mad at you for cock-blocking or thank you for chaperoning,” Roman tells Zuza, and then goes to his bedroom to jerk off.

*

Roman’s still not sure how he feels about asking Connie to leave the next afternoon. Well, not sure how he feels about it right up until he overhears Harry on the phone on his way into the X.

“He stayed over at mine,” Harry says, and Roman — Roman shouldn’t eavesdrop, and he shouldn’t assume Harry’s talking about Connie, could be talking about Val or Patty or someone unrelated to the team entirely. Unlikely, but it’s possible. “Because I’m irresistible, Annie, obviously,” Harry says, then, “Hey!”

He’s talking about Connie, then, unless Harry’s the kind to juggle and also the kind who doesn’t keep that under wraps. Roman doubts it. Connie isn’t the kind of guy you juggle.

Just the kind of guy who juggles—

Roman cuts that shit off fast. You don’t get to be resentful about something someone straight up told you was the situation, a situation you then _agreed_ to. Or maybe Harry can be. Roman won’t, though, especially since Connie was, by all rights, already involved with Harry when Roman made his move. You can’t be pissed at someone for making adjustments for you, even if they’re not really the ones that you’d imagined. Not that Roman had imagined any, since he didn’t know anything about Connie and Harry at the time. Wouldn’t have kissed him if he had, he told Harry that, and he meant it. Roman’s never going to be the kind of person willing to take what he wants if it fucks someone else over.

Not that Harry seems all that fucked over, considering. Connie stayed over at his, after all, and if he was talking about yesterday — and it sounded like it, said it in a way that sounded recent — that means maybe Connie went to his after he left Roman’s. He was keyed up, Roman felt that against his thigh, pretended not to as much as he pretended he didn’t want to unzip his jeans, palm his hand over it, put his mouth on him. Seems as likely as not Harry was doing the exact things Roman didn’t while Roman was jerking off in his bedroom to the thought of them, the feeling of Connie hot and hard against him, the almost bruised red of his mouth, the hot line of his body against Roman’s, trying to ignore the sound of Zuza scrabbling at his door. 

Roman’s trying not to think about it, but once he’s in the room his eyes drift to Connie, as they usually do lately, just in time to catch Connie changing into warm up clothes. Roman’s eyes fall on a mark where his neck meets his shoulder, a bruised red like his mouth was yesterday. It’s not from Roman’s mouth, though, and he doesn’t remember it being there before, has a feeling he would have noticed it, the way he made his acquaintance with Connie’s throat, a softer pink blush of beard burn lingering to testify to that. Made his acquaintance, but never set his teeth, never did anything that could leave a mark. Hickies are for high schoolers and overly possessive assholes.

Roman glances over at Harry. Connie may be the one closest to high school, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they acted. He probably left it on fucking purpose.

Harry’s stripped to his underwear and distracted by something on his phone, which gives Roman a second to look him over. His shoulders are as freckled as his cheeks, and surprisingly broad, considering how compact he seems, especially in comparison to the majority of them. Someone like Fitzy, he might be short but he’s built as sturdy as most of them, if not moreso, so it’s not the height thing. Roman has a feeling if he tried to pick Fitzy up, Fitzy would stay on his feet unless Roman put his strength behind it, that if he picked Harry up, it’d be easy right up until Harry socked him in the jaw for it.

There’s a livid bruise on his left side, just over his ribs. It’s definitely hockey related, not sex, that’s clear from the size of it, half a palm, how deep it looks. It’s green around the edges, so it’s not new, though it’s still dark in the center, a reminder that Roman imagines is still hot to the touch, still makes Harry flinch when he moves wrong, forgetting it’s there.

There’s another bruise low on his back, half hidden under the waistband of his briefs, softer, more like a smudge than punctuation. It could easily be another hockey bruise, but it could also be something else, perhaps a mark of where Connie pressed his fingers, hauling Harry in, pulling him closer, leaving his fingerprints on him. Harry bruises easily. It’s something Roman hasn’t paid all that much attention to, but has always noticed, the way he marks up worse than anyone, could have a pretty easy night and end up looking more beat up than someone who got bruised right down to the bone.

He wonders if Harry fucked him last night, or maybe Connie fucked Harry, or any of the other iterations, mouths, hands, Harry’s teeth biting down against Connie’s collarbone, Connie careful to avoid the deeper bruising when he dug his fingers into Harry’s back. If someone’s balls were slapping someone else’s ass while Roman was in his room, tight hand around himself. He couldn’t even manage to get off in the end, not with Zuza’s scrabbling turning into pitiful whining, so maybe he was tucking himself back into his underwear, frustrated, while Harry sunk his teeth in to Connie. Roman fell asleep that night thinking about Connie. He doubts Connie was thinking about him at all.

Harry drops trou like thinking about his ass made it appear, and Roman looks away, like he always does, observing locker room etiquette, but he can’t help himself from scanning for bruises first, like a fucking creep. He feels like he’s going crazy, driving himself crazy over this, and he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the way he’s feeling, the way when he saw that mark on Connie he wanted to leave one of his own over it. Territorial alpha male bullshit, and Roman isn’t that guy. Roman doesn’t want to be that guy.

Roman changes quickly, keeping his eyes on the wall, goes over to where Connie and Val are talking. Val blinks twice when Roman walks over, then wanders over to Victor before Roman says a thing. Still Roman’s Sweet Child.

“Can I talk to you later?” Roman asks.

“You can talk to me now,” Connie says.

“It’s kind of—” Roman starts, and thankfully Connie’s already nodded.

“Come over tomorrow?” Connie asks. “I’d say tonight but I promised Val—”

“That’s okay,” Roman says. “I don’t know about yours? Val—”

“I’ll kick him out,” Connie says, which in Connie probably means he’ll ask very nicely and promise Val a favor in return.

“Okay,” Roman says. He doesn’t want to do it in front of Zuza anyway. She’s sensitive. Better not to break her heart.

They win the game in OT, and Roman’s apparently not even allowed to consider skipping out on drinks after, since he assisted on the game-winner. He doesn’t mind too much, though he’s going to have to avoid Connie, he thinks, not sure he can hold out on postponing the conversation, especially if Harry’s hanging around him.

That turns out to be a non-issue, because Connie’s nowhere to be found once they hit the bar. Neither is Harry, and there’s something ugly in Roman when he notices that. It’s stupid. Connie said he promised Val something, and Val’s not there either. Stupid, and paranoid, because Connie’s not a liar. Chances are 99% that Connie and Val are having a night in, or out, or whatever. Still, that 1% leaves a bad taste in his mouth, as much for the thought itself, Connie blowing off Roman to do whatever with Harry, as the fact that’s entirely within his rights, and if Roman keeps feeling shafted every time that happens, he’s not going to be having a lot of good days in his future.

Talking tomorrow, Roman reminds himself, even though it isn’t all that pleasant a thought. Tomorrow, and he’ll rip the bandaid off, which will hurt, but not as much as holding on would.

“Why so glum, chum?” Fitzy asks, plopping down beside Roman with the force of a guy twice his size. 

“Why are you like this?” Roman asks him.

Fitzy puts his chin on Roman’s shoulders and bats his eyelashes. “Spoiled too much as a child,” he says, which Roman would bet anything is actually true. Roman knows only children. He might — he’s technically one now, but he — he knows only children. He’s frankly still a little shocked Harry isn’t one. “Wanna vent?”

“Not even a little,” Roman says, which is unfortunately untrue. It’s not like it’ll help anything, though.

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me anything,” Fitzy says, with a pout like he’s prepared to sulk about it. “But can I ask a series of questions that prove I’m a way better detective than your rookies?”

“Former rookies,” Roman says, then sighs. “You’re going to even if I say no,” he says.

“True,” Fitzy says. “So you’re banging Connie, huh?”

“Fitzgerald,” Roman hisses, looking around. No one within earshot, which he’s sure Fitzy checked first, but _still_.

“What,” Fitzy says. “You are.”

Roman rubs a hand over his face. “No, I’m not,” he says.

Fitzy cocks his head. “That wasn’t a lie,” he says. “Why wasn’t that a lie?”

“Because I’m not a liar?” Roman says.

“Why aren’t you banging him?” Fitzy asks. “Chalmers is.”

Fitzy is definitely a better detective than his rookies, except maybe Victor, and Roman really resents that right now.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Roman says.

“Too bad,” Fitzy says breezily, then, a little more seriously, “You clearly need to.”

“It’s not any of your business,” Roman says, then, “Don’t say anything about the Rookie Detectives.”

“I mean, if you’re going to make my point for me,” Fitzy says. “Seriously, big guy, you look depressed.”

“I’m not depressed,” Roman says, “Just—”

“Sad? Forlorn? Morose? Melanchol—”

“Did you eat a thesaurus?” Roman asks.

“I’ve started doing crossword puzzles,” Fitzy says. “Print’s too small for Mike so I’m his assistant.”

“That is actually adorable,” Roman says.

“I do my best,” Fitzy says, serious again, almost sad, but he smiles a little when Roman squeezes his shoulder. “C’mon,” he says. “Spill.”

“You ever feel like you lost before you even started to play the game?” Roman asks.

“I was an Edmonton Oiler for three years,” Liam says, and Roman snorts. “Is Connie the game?”

“Connie’s not a game,” Roman says.

“Obviously,” Fitzy says. “But like. He’s what you’re talking about here?”

Roman shrugs.

“Just because you’re losing doesn’t mean you quit playing,” Fitzy says. “That’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb,” Roman says.

“ _You’re_ dumb,” Fitzy says, grinning widely until Roman gets him into a headlock.

“Don’t bite,” Roman says preemptively, which of course Fitzy does. “How does Brouwer let you out of the house?” he asks, letting him go, then quickly says, “Don’t make a sex joke,” when Fitzy opens his mouth.

“Boo, you whore, you spoil all my jokes,” Fitzy says, then, “Or…not whore, I guess?”

“Liam,” Roman says.

“Sorry,” Fitzy says. “Keep playing, okay? You can come from behind and all that.”

He starts snickering immediately, and Roman unfortunately can’t hold back his own laugh, even though he knows it’s best not to encourage him. 

“Thanks,” Roman says, when they’ve sobered up, “but I think it’s about time I throw in the towel.”

“You sure?” Fitzy asks.

“No,” Roman says. “But. You know.”

“I do not,” Fitzy says.

“Me either,” Roman admits.


End file.
